


Coffee Crock.

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Break Up, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't think he could do this anymore, and Brendon agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Crock.

“Can we be in love again please? Can we be head-over-heels, eyes-for-only-each-other, madly deeply in love?” You wipe your red lips with a white sleeve, and a smear of pink chapstick is left behind.

“I don’t think it’s that simple anymore.” I can’t stop watching you. You never seem to stop moving, your fingers twisting in your hair that really needs cutting, or drumming at your sides in a rhythm only you can hear. You constantly wrap your arms around yourself, like you’re trying to hold something together. As you bite your nails, I wonder if it’s working. Because we’re not. Not anymore.

You lean forward, elbows on the grubby coffee table, tracing patterns in the sugar grains spilt there by another unwitting patron. To our side, there’s a window, huge, but misted up from the body heat of those inside, so that the snowy outside and the people making their way in it aren’t visible, only flashes of colour. I almost like it better like that.

“It could be that simple.”  
“No, it can’t.” You snap back, and I can see the frustration in your tight muscles and furrowed brow, the solid set of your shoulders, like you were steeling against something. Against me. “You can’t just say things and hope that makes it true. You’re too old to be making wishes.”

I haven’t really wished on anything since I was ten and figured out what a crock it was, but I agreed with the general sentiment of your statement. I was too much of an optimist for my own good, while you were so pessimistic, you’d complain about the rain when it was still sunny. You’d make a good poet, or an artist, anything were being pale and moody was an asset. But you worked in an office, so you didn’t really have an excuse anymore.

I used to be able to make you smile. It didn’t take much. You never did it freely, you’d turn your head, and I’d notice the twitch of your cheek. I think these things made me love you more. There was so much to love about you, it was overwhelming. Maybe to a fault. I could lose myself in you, and maybe that’s why you stopped loving me. I was becoming like you, and the one person you couldn’t stand was yourself.

“You’re right.”  
“I am?” Your voice is startled, like you were expecting different. A fight perhaps. The one thing we shared was a love for the dramatics.   
“I have to stop wishing we were different.” I didn’t know who needed to change, me or you. Or maybe I’d changed too much. I can’t tell anymore. I stand up, moving away from our table as I sling on the scarf my brother got me, and the coat that was just a shade too long to be truly fashionable. I didn’t feel sad oddly. I felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest, and I could breathe. It wasn’t a happiness either. It just was.


End file.
